"What you say, I will do," he said simply. Book Two
Silver and Gold
"No one, not even the wisest and most venerable elven sage, can say with assurance when and from whence the first elves came to Toril. But tales are told of a time long past, when elves fled by the thousands from war-torn Faerie, that magical land that exists in the unseen shadows of a thousand worlds.
The songs and stories that tell of those times are as numerous as the stars. No one now living could give a history that would sate those sages who search the ancient lore as a lover studies his beloved's face, or as dreamers who gaze up into the night sky and wonder.
But sometimes a pattern emerges from the telling of small tales, much as the individual bits of tile or stone become a mosaic, or a thousand bright threads interweave to form a tapestry."
– Excerpt from a letter from Kriios Halambar,
Master Luthier of New Olamn Barding College, Waterdeep
6
Weaving the Web (Time of Dragons)
In victory, they were defeated.
The elves of Tintageer-at least, those few who had survived the long siege, the battle that followed, and the horrendous magical cataclysm that ended it-clung to each other and watched as the last few invading ships were torn to driftwood by the raging sea. Not a single enemy remained on their island. All had been shaken into the angry waters by the magical attack whose power went far beyond the expectations of those who'd unleashed it. Even now, violent convulsions shuddered through the elven island, as if the land itself felt a lingering horror-or a premonition of doom.
"The trees!" one of the females cried suddenly, pointing to the line of limber palms that swayed wildly along the shore.
Her fellow survivors looked, and a murmur of consternation rippled through the battered group. Before the battle, those trees had lined the broad street that swept past Angharradh's Temple-a street that once had been hundreds of paces from the ocean. Even as the elves watched, horrified, the crashing surf climbed higher and higher along the diamond-shaped patterns that scored the tree trunks.
"To the dancing hill. Now!" ordered an elven youth. His voice-a fledgling baritone-cracked on the final word and rose into shrill, childlike soprano.
But the elves obeyed him at once. They would have done so even if the wisdom in the young elf's reasoning was not so patently obvious. Although Durothil was little more than a child, he was the youngest brother of the king-and all that remained of Tintageer's royal family. More, there was something about the young prince that commanded respect, despite his extreme youth and the uncertain timbre of his voice.
The elves turned away from the ruined city and hurriedly picked their way through the rubble-strewn groves that led to the dancing hill. The highest point of the island, it offered the best hope of a haven until the unnaturally high waters receded.
As they neared the crest of the hill, the elves' footsteps grew lighter and their ravaged countenances eased. This sacred site harbored their brightest memories and their most powerful magic. Here they gathered to celebrate the turning of the seasons, to sing the old songs and dance for the sheer joy of existence, to gather starlight and weave it into wondrous spells that blessed and strengthened the People or lent magic to their artworks.
But the elves' remembered joy was short-lived. The ground beneath their feet began to shiver, then convulsed briefly and violently as if in anguish.
An eerie silence followed the quake, broken by a faint murmur coming from the distant, watery horizon. The elves looked out to sea and understood that the island's tremors had been its death throes. A vast wall of water swept in from the west.
The elves stood watching, stunned and silent, as death raced toward them.
"We must dance," Durothil urged, shaking the elf nearest him as if to waken her. Bonnalurie, the island's only surviving priestess of Angharradh, gazed at him for a moment before his meaning pierced her grief-befogged mind. Her eyes brightened, then flamed with determination. Together they rallied the elves and explained their desperate plan.
Under the priestess's guidance, the elven survivors formed a circle and began to follow her through the steps of one of the most powerful of elven spells. All joined in the dance, even the younglings and the wounded, though they knew not the High Magic that it cast, although the risks to themselves and their priestess were enormous.
When her charges had merged fully with the rhythm of the dance, Bonnalurie began to sing. Her silvery soprano voice rang out over the island, calling upon the power of her goddess, gathering the threads of magic that emanated from each elf and weaving them into a single purpose. The magic she shaped was a Seeking, one powerful enough to move beyond the veils separating the worlds, to find a place of power such as the one upon which the elves now danced-and to open a pathway to this new world. Under normal circumstances, only the most powerful elven mages would dare to cast such a spell, and then, only with the support of a Circle. Though she was no mage, Bonnalurie knew more of the Art than did most clergy. She understood the enormity of the task she had undertaken and the price it would demand of her. And not from her alone: Only a few of the elves who danced to her song would travel the silver pathway in safety. As for the others-well, Bonnalurie needed every breath and pulse of magic she could muster in order to shape this spell. If she failed, all would perish.
Caught up in the magic, the elves danced on in near ecstacy, not knowing what they did but somehow finding a place within the emerging pattern of the dance. One after another, they began to sing, taking up the thread of Bonnalurie's song and adding to it the magic of their own life essence. Some of the elves grew pale, wraith-like, as they were consumed by the magic they cast. But not one foot faltered, and their collective song rang out in defiance of death's approach. They danced and sang long after they could no longer hear their own voices over the roar of the surging tide.
A shadow fell over the dancers as the wall of water blotted out the setting sun. Then the sea slammed into the island, sending the elves spinning off into the silver path their magic had woven. Even there the sea seemed to follow, for the explosion of power that swept them away buffeted them like dark and merciless waves.
After what seemed an eternity, Durothil landed upon an unknown shore with a force that sent agony jolting through every fiber of his body. Ignoring the pain as best he could, the young elf rolled onto his back and came up in a crouch, hand on the hilt of his dagger. His green eyes swept the area for danger. When he perceived none, he forced himself to take measure of those elves who had completed the magical journey.
Durothil did not see Bonnalurie among the dazed survivors. He had not expected to. Although magic was as natural to them as the air they breathed, few elves could survive in the eye of a storm so enormous. Gathering and channeling so much magic required great strength, extensive training, and enormous discipline. A circle of High Magi, working together, could shape and direct these forces without ill effect. But Bonnalurie had acted alone and had channeled the magical tempest through her own being. It had swept her away.
Later, Durothil vowed silently, the survivors of Tintageer would mourn the priestess's passing and sing of her courage and her sacrifice for the People. But not now, nor for many days to come. Durothil's throat felt tight with too many unsung songs of mourning.
Of all the elves of Tintageer, an island that boasted one of the most wondrous and populous civilizations in all of Faerie, fewer than one hundred had lived through the battle to dance upon the sacred hill. Of these, not more than half remained. It was not an auspicious beginning; even so, they had survived, and they would rebuild.